Lato now stands in need of all the energy with which Providence has endowed him. All the excellence and nobility that have hitherto lain dormant in his soul arouse to life, now that they can but help him to die like a man. He cannot sever the golden fetters which he himself has forged; he will not drag through the mire what is most sacred to him; well, then----
Upon reaching his room he seated himself at his writing-table and wrote several letters,--the first to his father, requesting him to see that his debts were paid; one to Paula, one to his mother-in-law, and one to Harry. The letter to Harry ran thus:
"My dear good old Comrade,--
"When this note reaches you, you will be already freed from your fetters. I have never forgiven myself for refusing to perform the service you asked of me, and I have now retrieved my fault. I have written to Paula and to my mother-in-law, explaining your position to them, telling them the truth with brutal frankness, and leaving no course open to them save to release you. You are free. Farewell.
"Yours till death,
"Lato Treurenberg."
He tossed the pen aside.
The others were still dancing. The sound of the music came softly from the distance. He rested his head on his hands and pondered.
He has seen clearly that it must be. He had written the letters as the first irrevocable step. But how was it to be done?
He looked for his revolver. It might all be over in a moment. He caught up the little weapon with a kind of greed. Suddenly he recalled a friend who had shot himself, and whose body he had seen lying on the bed where the deed had been done: there were ugly stains of blood upon the pillow. His nature revolted from everything ugly and unclean. And then the scene, the uproar that would ensue upon discovering the corpse. If he could only avoid all that, could only cloak the ugly deed. Meanwhile, his faithful hound came to him from a corner of the room, and, as if suspicious that all was not right with its master, laid its head upon his knee.
The way was clear,--Lato had lately frequently risen early in the morning to stalk a deer, which had escaped his gun again and again; he had but to slip out of the house for apparently the same purpose, and---- and It would be more easily done beneath God's open skies. But several hours must elapse before he could leave the castle. That was terrible. Would his resolve hold good? He began to pace the room restlessly to and fro.
Had he forgotten anything that ought to be done? He paused and listened, seeming to hear a light footfall in the room above him. Yes, it was Olga's room; he could hear her also walking to and fro, to and fro. His breath came quick; everything within him cried out for happiness, for life! He threw himself upon his bed, buried his face among the pillows, clinched his hands, and so waited, motionless.
At last the steps overhead ceased, the music was silent; there was a rustling in the corridors,--the guests were retiring to their rooms; then all was still, as still as death.
Lato arose, lit a candle, and looked at his watch,--half-past two. There was still something on his heart,--a discontent of which he would fain disburden himself before the end. He sat down again at his writing-table, and wrote a few lines to Olga, pouring out his soul to her; then, opening his letter to Harry, he added a postscript: "It would be useless to attempt any disguise with you,--you have read my heart too clearly,--and therefore I can ask a last office of friendship of you. Give Olga the enclosed note from me,--I do not wish any one here to know of this,--my farewell to her. Think no evil of her. Should any one slander her, never believe it!--never!"
He would have written more, but words failed him to express what he felt; so he enclosed his note to Olga in his letter to Harry and sealed and stamped it.
His thoughts began to wander vaguely. Old legends occurred to him. Suddenly he laughed at something that had occurred ten years before, at Komaritz,--the trick Harry had played upon Fainacky, the "braggart Sarmatian."
He heard himself laugh, and shuddered. The gray dawn began to glimmer in the east. He looked at his watch,--it was time! He drew a long, sighing breath, and left his room; the dog followed him. In the corridor he paused, possessed by a wild desire to creep to Olga's door and, kneeling before it, to kiss the threshold. He took two steps towards the staircase, then, by a supreme effort, controlled himself and turned back.
But in the park he sought the spot where he had met her yesterday, where he had kissed her for the first and only time. Here he stood still for a while, and, looking down, perceived the half-effaced impress of a small foot upon the gravel. He stooped and pressed his lips upon it.
Now he has left the park, and the village too lies behind him; he has posted his letter to Harry in the yellow box in front of the post-office. He walks through the poplar avenue where she came to meet him scarcely three weeks ago. He can still feel the touch of her delicate hand. A bird twitters faintly above his head, and recalls to his memory how he had watched the belated little feathered vagabond hurrying home to its nest.
"A life that warms itself beside another life in which it finds peace and comfort," he murmurs to himself. An almost irresistible force stays his steps. But no; he persists, and walks on towards the forest. He will only wait for the sunrise, and then----
He waits in vain. The heavens are covered with clouds; a sharp wind sighs above the fields; the leaves tremble as if in mortal terror; for the first time in six weeks a few drops of rain fall. No splendour hails the awakening world, but along the eastern horizon there is a blood-red streak. Just in Lato's path a solitary white butterfly flutters upon the ground. The wind grows stronger, the drops fall more thickly; the pale blossoms by the roadside shiver; the red poppies do not open their cups, but hang their heads as if drunk with sleep.
Olga had remained in her room because she could not bring herself to meet Treurenberg again. No, she could never meet him after the words, the kiss, they had exchanged,--never--until he should call her. For it did not occur to her to recall what she had said to him,--she was ready for everything for his sake. Not a thought did she bestow upon the disgrace that would attach to her in the eyes of the world. What did she care what people said or thought of her? But he,--what if she had disgraced herself in his eyes by the confession of her love? The thought tortured her.
She kept saying to herself, "He was shocked at me; I wounded his sense of delicacy. Oh, my God! and yet I could not see him suffer so,--I could not!"
When night came on she lay dressed upon her bed for hours, now and then rising to pace the room to and fro. At last she fell asleep. She was roused by hearing a door creak. She listened: it was the door of Lato's room. Again she listened. No, she must have been mistaken; it was folly to suppose that Lato would think of leaving the house at a little after three in the morning! She tried to be calm, and began to undress, when suddenly a horrible suspicion assailed her; her teeth chattered, the heart in her breast felt like lead.
"I must have been mistaken," she decided. But she could not be at rest. She went out into the corridor; all there was still. The dawn was changing from gray to white. She glided down the staircase to the door of Lato's room, where she kneeled and listened at the key-hole. She could surely hear him breathe, she thought. But how could she hear it when her own pulses were throbbing so loudly in her heart, in her temples, in her ears?
She listened with all her might: nothing, nothing could she hear. Her head sank against the door, which was ajar and yielded. She sprang up and, half dead with shame, was about to flee, when she paused. If he were in his room would not the creaking of the door upon its hinges have roused him? Again she turned and peered into the room.
At the first glance she perceived that it was empty, and that the bed had not been slept in.
With her heart throbbing as if to break, she rushed up to her room, longing to scream aloud, to rouse the household with "He has gone! he has gone! Search for him! save him!"
But how is this possible? How can she confess that she has been in his room? Her cheeks burn; half fainting in her misery, she throws wide her window to admit the fresh morning air.
What is that? A scratching at the house door below, and then a melancholy whine. Olga hurries out into the corridor again, and at first cannot tell whence the noise proceeds. It grows louder and more persistent, an impatient scratching and knocking at the door leading out into the park. She hastens down the stairs and opens it.
"Lion!" she exclaims, as the dog leaps upon her, then crouches before her on the gravel, gazes piteously into her face, and utters a long howl, hoarse and ominous. Olga stoops down to him. Good God! what is this? His shoulder, his paws are stained with blood. The girl's heart seems to stand still. The dog seizes her dress as if to drag her away; releases it, runs leaping into the park, turns and looks at her. Shall she follow him?
Yes, she follows him, trembling, panting, through the park, through the village, out upon the highway, where the trees are vocal with the shrill twittering of birds. A clumsy peasant-cart is jolting along the road; the sleepy carter rubs his eyes and gazes after the strange figure with dishevelled hair and disordered dress, hastening towards the forest.
She has reached it at last. The dog's uneasiness increases, and he disappears among the trees. Olga stops; she cannot go on. The dog howls more loudly, and slowly, holding by the trees, she totters forward. What is it that makes the ground here so slippery? Blood? There,--there by the poacher's grave, at the foot of the rude wooden cross, she finds him.
A shriek, wild and hoarse, rings through the air. The leaves quiver and rustle with the flight of the startled birds among their branches. The heavens are filled with wailing, and the earth seems to rock beneath the girl's feet.
Then darkness receives her, and she forgets the horror of it all in unconsciousness.
There was a dinner at Count Capriani's, and Count Hans Treurenberg, slender and erect, the embodiment of elegant frivolity, had just said something witty. One of his fellow-aristocrats, a noble slave of Capriani's, had been discoursing at length upon the new era that was dawning upon the world, and had finally proposed a toast to the union of the two greatest powers on earth, wealth and rank. All present had had their glasses ready; Count Hans alone had hesitated for a moment, and had then remarked, with his inimitable smile,--
"Well, let us, for all I care, drink to the marriage of the Golden Calf to the Chimera." And when every one stared in blank dismay, he added, thoughtfully, "What do you think, gentlemen, is it a marriage of expediency, or one of love? Capriani, it would be interesting to hear your views upon this question." Then, in spite of the lowering brow of the host, the aristocrats present burst into Homeric laughter.
At that moment a telegram was brought to the Count. Why did his hand tremble as he unfolded it? He was accustomed to receive telegraphic messages:
"There has been an accident. Lato seriously wounded while hunting.
"Selina."
An hour afterwards he was in the railway-train.
He had never been to Dobrotschau, and did not know that the route which he had taken stopped two stations away from the estate. The Harfink carriage waited for him at an entirely different station. He had to send his servant to a neighbouring village to procure a conveyance. Meanwhile, he made inquiries of the railway officials at the station as to the accident at Dobrotschau. No one knew anything with certainty: there was but infrequent communication between this place and Dobrotschau. The old Count began to hope. If the worst had happened, the ill news would have travelled faster. Selina must have exaggerated matters. He read his telegram over and over again:
"There has been an accident. Lato seriously wounded while hunting."
It was the conventional formula used to convey information of the death of a near relative.
All around him seemed to reel as he pondered the missive in the bare little waiting-room by the light of a smoking lamp. The moisture stood in beads upon his forehead. For the first time a horrible thought occurred to him.
"An accident while hunting? What accident could possibly happen to a man hunting with a good breechloader----? If--yes, if--but that cannot be; he has never uttered a complaint!" He suddenly felt mortally ill and weak.
The servant shortly returned with a conveyance. Nor had he been able to learn anything that could be relied upon. Some one in the village had heard that there had been an accident somewhere in the vicinity, but whether it had resulted in death no one could tell.
The Count got into the vehicle, a half-open coach, smelling of damp leather and mould. The drive lasted for two hours. At first it was quite dark; nothing could be seen but two rays of light proceeding from the coach-lamps, which seemed to chase before them a mass of blackness. Once the Count dozed, worn out with emotion and physical fatigue. He was roused by the fancy that something like a cold, moist wing brushed his cheek. He looked abroad; the darkness had become less dense, the dawn was breaking faintly above the slumbering earth. Everything appeared gray, shadowy, and ghost-like. A dog began to bark in the neighbouring village; there was a sound of swiftly-rolling wheels. The Count leaned forward and saw something vague and indistinct, preceded by two streaks of light flashing along a side-road.
It was only a carriage, but he shuddered as at something supernatural. Everywhere he seemed to see signs and omens.
"Are we near Dobrotschau?" he asked the coachman.
"Almost there, your Excellency."
They drove through the village. A strange foreboding sound assailed the Count's ears,--the long-drawn whine of a dog,--and a weird, inexplicable noise like the flapping of the wings of some huge captive bird vainly striving to be free. The Count looked up. The outlines of the castle were indistinct in the twilight, and hanging from the tower, curling and swelling in the morning air, was something huge--black.
The carriage stopped. Martin came to the door, and, as he helped his former master to alight, informed him that the family had awaited the Count until past midnight, but that when the carriage returned empty from the railway-station they had retired. His Excellency's room was ready for him.
Not one word did he say of the cause of the Count's coming. He could not bring himself to speak of that. They silently ascended the staircase. Suddenly the Count paused. "It was while he was hunting?" he asked the servant, bluntly.
"Yes, your Excellency."
"When?"
"Very early yesterday morning."
"Were you with him?" The Count's voice was sharper.
"No, your Excellency; no one was with him. The Count went out alone."
There was an oppressive silence. The father had comprehended. He turned his back to the servant, and stood mute and motionless for a while. "Take me to him," he ordered at last.
The man led the way down-stairs and through a long corridor, then opened a door. "Here, your Excellency!"
They had laid the dead in his own room, where he was to remain until the magnificent preparations for his burial should be completed. Here there was no pomp of mourning. He lay there peacefully, a cross clasped in his folded hands, a larger crucifix at the head of the bed, where two wax candles were burning--that was all.
The servant retired. Count Hans kneeled beside the body, and tried to pray. But this Catholic gentleman, who until a few years previously had ardently supported every ultramontane measure of the reigning family, now discovered, for the first time, that he no longer knew his Pater Noster by heart. He could not even pray for the dead. He was possessed by a kind of indignation against himself, and for the first time he felt utterly dissatisfied with his entire life. His eyes were riveted upon the face of his dead son. "Why, why did this have to be?--just this?"
His thoughts refused to dwell upon the horrible catastrophe; they turned away, wandering hither and thither; yesterday's hunting breakfast occurred to him; he thought of his witty speech and of the laughter it had provoked, laughter which even the host's frown could not suppress. The sound of his own voice rang in his ears: "Yes, gentlemen, let us drink to the marriage of the Golden Calf to the Chimera."
Then he recalled Lato upon his first steeple-chase, on horseback, in a scarlet coat, still lanky and awkward, but handsome as a picture, glowing with enjoyment, his hunting-whip lifted for a stroke.
His eyes were dry, his tongue was parched, a fever was burning in his veins, and at each breath he seemed to be lifting some ponderous weight. A feeling like the consciousness of a horrible crime oppressed him; he shivered, and suddenly dreaded being left there alone with the corpse, beside which he could neither weep nor pray.
Slowly through the windows the morning stole into the room, while the black flag continued to flap and rustle against the castle wall, like a prisoned bird aimlessly beating its wings against the bars of its cage, and the dog whined on.
A few days afterwards Lato's body was consigned to the family vault of the Treurenbergs,--not, of course, without much funereal pomp at Dobrotschau.
With him vanished the last descendant of an ancient race which had once been strong and influential, and which had preserved to the last its chivalric distinction.
The day after the catastrophe Harry received a letter from Paula, in which, on the plea of a dissimilarity of tastes and interests which would be fatal to happiness in marriage, she gave him back his troth. As she remained at Dobrotschau for an entire week after the funeral, it may be presumed that she wished to give her former betrothed opportunity to remonstrate against his dismissal. But he took great care to avoid even a formal protest. A very courteous, very formal, very brief note, in which he expressed entire submission to her decree, was the only sign of life his former captor received from him.
When Paula Harfink learned that Harry had left Komaritz and had returned to his regiment in Vienna, she departed from Dobrotschau with her mother and sister, to pass several months at Nice.
In the beginning of January she returned with the Baroness Harfink to Vienna, heart-whole and with redoubled self-confidence. She was loud in her expressions of contempt for military men, especially for cavalry officers, a contempt in which even Arthur Schopenhauer could not have outdone her; she lived only for science and professors, a large number of whom she assembled about her, and among whom this young sultaness proposed with great caution and care to select one worthy to be raised to the dignity of her Prince-Consort.
Selina did not return with her mother to Vienna, but remained for the time being with a female companion in Nice. As is usual with most blondes, her widow's weeds became her well, and her luxuriant beauty with its dark crape background attracted a score of admirers, who, according to report, were not all doomed to languish hopelessly at her feet.
Fainacky, however, was never again received into favour.
Olga retired to a convent, partly to sever all ties with the world, which had misunderstood and maligned her in her relations to the part she had played in the fearful drama enacted at Dobrotschau, partly to do penance by her asceticism for Lato's suicide, which was to her deep religious sense a fearful crime, and of which she considered herself in some measure the cause.
Moreover, Lato's suicide produced a profound impression upon all his friends. Harry could hardly take any pleasure in his freedom, so dark was the shadow thrown upon his happiness by grief for the fate of his life-long friend and comrade. Under the circumstances, until, so to speak, the grass had grown over the terrible event, his betrothal to Zdena could not be thought of; the mere idea of it wounded his sense of delicacy. He contented himself, before returning to Vienna, with a farewell visit to Zirkow, when he informed the entire family of the sudden change in his position. The major, whose sense of delicacy was not so acute as his nephew's, could not refrain from smiling broadly and expressing a few sentiments not very flattering to Fräulein Paula, nor from asking Harry one or two questions which caused the young fellow extreme confusion.
The major's efforts to force atête-à-têteupon the young people were quite vain. Zdena, when Harry left, accompanied the young officer openly, as she had often done, to the court-yard, where she stroked his horse before he mounted and fed him with sugar, as had ever been her wont.
"Good-bye, Zdena," Harry said, simply kissing her cold hand, just as he had often done when taking leave of her. Then, with his hand on the bridle, ready to mount, he gazed deep into her eyes and asked, "When may I come back again, Zdena?"
She replied, "In the spring," in a voice so low and trembling that it echoed through his soul, long after he had left her, like a caress. He nodded, swung himself into the saddle, turned once in the gate-way for a farewell look at her, and was gone. She stood looking after him until the sound of his horse's hoofs died away, then went back to the house and remained invisible in her room for the rest of the forenoon.
The winter passed slowly. In the cavalry barracks in Vienna a change was observed in Harry Leskjewitsch. He began to be looked upon as a very earnest and hard-working young officer. His name stood first among those for whom a brilliant military career was prophesied. And, oddly enough, while there was a great increase in the regard in which he was held by his superior officers, there was no decrease in his popularity with his comrades.
The youngest good-for-naughts did, it is true, reproach him with having become tediously serious, and with great caution in spending his money. But when by chance the cause of his sudden economy was discovered, all discontent with his conduct ceased, especially since his purse was always at the service of a needy comrade.
When, after the Harfinks had returned from Nice, he first met Paula in the street, he was much confused, and was conscious of blushing. He felt strangely on beholding the full red lips which had so often kissed him, the form which had so often hung upon his arm. When, with some hesitation, he touched his cap, he wondered at the easy grace with which the young lady returned his salute. His wonder was still greater when, a few days afterwards, he encountered Frau von Harfink, who accosted him, and, after inquiring about his health, added, with her sweetest smile,--
"I trust that my daughter's withdrawal from her engagement to you will not prevent you from visiting us. Good heavens! it was a mistake; you were not at all suited to each other. We shall be delighted to welcome you as a friend at any time. Come soon to see us."
If Harry were changed, Zdena was not less so. She was more silent than formerly; the outbreaks of childish gaiety in which she had been wont to indulge had vanished entirely, while, on the other hand, there was never a trace of her old discontent. Indeed, there was no time for anything of the kind, she had so much to do.
She had developed a wonderful interest in household affairs; spent some time each day in the kitchen, where, engaged in the most prosaic occupations, she displayed so much grace that the major could not help peeping at her from time to time. And when her uncle praised at table some wondrous result of her labours, she would answer, eagerly, "Yes, is it not good? and it is not very expensive."
Whereupon the major would pinch her cheek and smile significantly.
Frau Rosamunda was not at all aware of what was going on about her. She frequently commended the girl's dexterity in all that her awakened interest in household affairs led her to undertake, and after informing the major of his niece's improvement, and congratulating herself in being able to hand her keys over to the girl, she would add, with a sigh, "I am so glad she never took anything into her head with regard to Roderick. I must confess that I think his sudden disappearance very odd, after all the attention he paid her."
The major would always sigh sympathetically when his wife talked thus, and would then take the earliest opportunity to leave the room to "laugh it out," as he expressed it.
Thus life went on with its usual monotony at Zirkow.
Harry's letters to the major, which came regularly twice a month, were always read aloud to the ladies with enthusiasm by the old dragoon, then shown in part to Krupitschka, and then left lying about anywhere. They invariably vanished without a trace; but once when the major wished to refer to one of these important documents and could not find it, it turned out that Zdena had picked it up--by chance.
At last the spring made its joyous appearance and stripped the earth of its white robe of snow. For a few days it lay naked and bare, ugly and brown; then the young conqueror threw over its nakedness a rich mantle of blossoms, and strode on, tossing a bridal wreath into the lap of many a hopeless maiden, and cheering with flowers many a dying mortal who had waited but for its coming.
Zdena and the major delighted in the spring; they were never weary of watching its swift work in the garden, enjoying the opening of the blossoms, the unfolding of the leaves, and the songs of the birds. The fruit-trees had donned their most festal array; but Zdena was grave and sad, for full three weeks had passed since any letter had come from Harry, who had been wont to write punctually every fortnight; and in his last he had not mentioned his spring leave of absence.
In feverish impatience the girl awaited the milkman, who always brought the mail from X---- just before afternoon tea. For days she had vainly watched her uncle as he sorted the letters. "'The post brings no letter for thee, my love!'" he sang, gaily.
But Zdena was not gay.
This afternoon the milkman is late. Zdena cannot wait for him quietly; she puts on an old straw hat and goes to meet him. It is nearly six o'clock; the sun is quite low, and beams pale golden through a ragged veil of fleecy clouds. A soft breeze is blowing; spring odours fill the air. The flat landscape is wondrous in colour, but it lacks the sharp contrasts of summer. Zdena walks quickly, with downcast eyes. Suddenly the sound of a horse's hoofs falls upon her ear. She looks up. Can it be? Her heart stands still, and then--why, then she finds nothing better to do than to turn and run home as fast as her feet can carry her. But he soon overtakes her. Springing from his horse, he gives the bridle to a peasant-lad passing by.
"Zdena!" he calls.
"Ah, it is you!" she replies, in a weak little voice, continuing to hurry home. Not until she has reached the old orchard does she pause, out of breath.
"Zdena!" Harry calls again, this time in a troubled voice, "what is the matter? Why are you so--so strange? You almost seem to be frightened!"
"I--I--you came so unexpectedly. We had no idea----" she stammers.
"Unexpectedly!" Harry repeats, and his look grows dark. "Unexpectedly! May I ask if you have again changed your mind?"
Her face is turned from him. Dismayed, assailed by a thousand dark fancies, he gazes at her. On a sudden he perceives that she is sobbing; and then----
Neither speaks a word, but he has clasped her to his breast, she has put both arms around his neck, and--according to the poets, who are likely to be right--the one perfect moment in the lives of two mortals is over!
The spring laughs exultantly among the trees, and rains white blossoms upon the heads of the fair young couple beneath them. Around them breathes the fragrance of freshly-awakened life, the air of a new, transfigured existence; there is a fluttering in the air above, as a cloud of birds sails over the blossom-laden orchard.
"Zdena, where are you?" calls the voice of the major. "Zdena, come quickly! Look! the swallows have come!"
The old dragoon makes his appearance from a garden-path. "Why, what is all this?" he exclaims, trying to look stern, as he comes in sight of the pair.
The young people separate hastily; Zdena blushes crimson, but Harry says, merrily,--
"Don't pretend to look surprised; you must have known long ago that I--that we loved each other." And he takes Zdena's hand and kisses it.
"Well, yes; but----" The major shrugs his shoulders.
"You mean that I ought to have made formal application to you for Zdena's hand?" asks Harry.
The old officer can contain himself no longer; his face lit up by the broadest of smiles, he goes to Zdena, pinches her ear, and asks,--
"Aha, Zdena! why must people marry because they love each other, hey?"
Old Baron Franz Leskjewitsch had changed greatly during the past winter. Those who saw most of him declared that he was either about to die or was growing insane. He moved from one to another of his various estates more restlessly than ever, appearing several times at Vorhabshen, which he never had been in the habit of visiting in winter, and not only appearing there, but remaining longer than usual. There was even a report that on one occasion he had ordered his coachman to drive to Zirkow; and, in fact, the old tumble-down carriage of the grim Baron had been seen driving along the road to Zirkow, but just before reaching the village it had turned back.
Yes, yes, the old Baron was either about to die or was "going crazy." There was such a change in him. He bought a Newfoundland dog, which he petted immensely, he developed a love for canary-birds, and, more alarming symptom than all the rest, he was growing generous: he stood godfather to two peasant babies, and dowered the needy bride of one of his bailiffs.
In the beginning of April he appeared again at Vorhabshen, and seemed in no hurry to leave it.
The day after Harry's sudden arrival at Zirkow, the old man was sitting, just after breakfast, in a leather arm-chair, smoking a large meerschaum pipe, and listening to Studnecka's verses, when the housekeeper entered to clear the table, a duty which Lotta, the despot, always performed herself for her master, perhaps because she wanted an opportunity for a little gossip with him.
Studnecka's efforts at entertainment were promptly dispensed with, and the old Baron shortly began, "Lotta, I hear that good-for-naught Harry is in this part of the country again; is it so?"
"Yes, Herr Baron; the cow-boy met him yesterday on the road," replied Lotta, sweeping the crumbs from the table-cloth into a green lacquered tray with a crescent-shaped brush.
"What is he doing here?" the old man asked, after a pause.
"They say he has come to court the Baroness Zdena."
"Oh, indeed!" The Baron tried to put on a particularly fierce expression. "It would seem that since that money-bag at Dobrotschau has thrown him over, he wants to try it on again with the girl at Zirkow, in hopes I shall come round. Oh, we understand all that."
"The Herr Baron ought to be ashamed to say such things of our Master Harry," Lotta exclaimed, firing up. "However, the Herr Baron can question the young Herr himself; there he is," she added, attracted to the window by the sound of a horse's hoofs. "Shall I show him up? or does the Herr Baron not wish to see him?"
"Oh, send him up, send him up. I'll enlighten the fellow."
In a few moments Harry makes his appearance. "Good-morning, uncle! how are you?" he calls out, his face radiant with happiness.
The old Baron merely nods his head. Without stirring from his arm-chair, without offering his hand to his nephew, without even asking him to sit down, he scans him suspiciously.
With his hand on his sabre, Harry confronts him, somewhat surprised by this strange reception, but nowise inclined to propitiate his uncle by any flattering attentions.
"Do you want anything?"
"No."
"Indeed? You're not short of money, then?
"On the contrary, I have saved some," Harry replies, speaking quite after his uncle's fashion.
"Ah! saved some, have you? Are you growing miserly?--a fine thing at your age! You probably learned it of your financial acquaintances," the old Baron growls.
"I have saved money because I am going to marry, and my betrothed is without means," Harry says, sharply.
"Ah! for a change you want to marry a poor girl! You display a truly edifying fickleness of character. And who is the fair creature to whom you have sacrificed your avarice?"
"I am betrothed to my cousin Zdena."
"Indeed?--to Zdena?" the Baron says, with well-feigned indignation. "Have you forgotten that in that case I shall disinherit you?"
"You will do as you choose about that," Harry replies, dryly. "I should be glad to assure my wife a pleasant and easy lot in life; but if you fancy that I have come here to sue for your favour, you are mistaken. It was my duty to inform you of my betrothal. I have done so; and that is all."
"Indeed? That is all?" thunders old Leskjewitsch. "It shall be all! Wait, you scoundrel, you good-for-naught, and we'll see if you go on carrying your head so high! I will turn the leaf: I will make Zdena my heiress,--but only upon condition that she sends you about your business. She shall choose between you--that is, between poverty--and me!"
"It will not take her long. Good-morning." With which Harry turns on his heel and leaves the room.
The old Baron sits motionless for a while. The mild spring breeze blows in through the open windows; there is a sound in the air of cooing doves, of water dripping on the stones of the paved court-yard from the roof, of the impatient pawing and neighing of a horse, and then the clatter of spurs and sabre.
The old man smiles broadly. "He shows race: the boy is a genuine Leskjewitsch," he mutters to himself,--"a good mate for the girl!" Then he goes to the window. Harry is just about to mount, when his uncle roars down to him, "Harry! Harry! The deuce take you! are you deaf? Can't you hear?"
Meanwhile, the major and his niece are walking in the garden at Zirkow. It was the major who had insisted that Harry should immediately inform his uncle of his betrothal.
Zdena has shown very little interest in the discussion as to how the cross-grained, eccentric old man would receive the news. And when her uncle suddenly looks her full in the face to ask how she can adapt herself to straitened means, she calmly lays her band on the arm of her betrothed, and whispers, tenderly, "You shall see." Then her eyes fill with tears as she adds, "But how will you bear it, Harry?"
He kisses both her hands and replies, "Never mind, Zdena; I assure you that at this moment Conte Capriani is a beggar compared with myself."
Just at this point Frau Rosamunda plucks her spouse by the sleeve and forces him,nolens volens, to retire with her.
"I cannot understand you," she lectures him in their conjugaltête-à-tête. "You are really indelicate, standing staring at the children, when you must see that they are longing to kiss each other. Such young people must be left to themselves now and then." At first Frau Rosamunda found it very difficult to assent to this rather imprudent betrothal, but she is now interested in it heart and soul. She arranges everything systematically, even delicacy of sentiment. Her exact rules in this respect rather oppress the major, who would gladly sun himself in the light and warmth of happiness which surrounds the young couple, about whose future, however, he is seriously distressed, lamenting bitterly his own want of business capacity which has so impoverished him.
"If I could but give the poor child more of a dowry," he keeps saying to himself. "Or if Franz would but come to his senses,--yes, if he would only listen to reason, all would be well."
All this is in his thoughts, as he walks with his niece in the garden on this bright spring forenoon, while his nephew has gone to Vorhabshen to have an explanation with his uncle. Consequently he is absent-minded and does not listen to the girl's gay chatter, the outcome of intense joy in her life and her love.
The birds are twittering loudly as they build their nests in the blossom-laden trees, the grass is starred with the first dandelions.
Harry is expected at lunch. The major is burning with impatience.
"One o'clock," he remarks. "The boy ought to be back by this time. What do you say to walking a little way to meet him?"
"As you please, uncle," the girl gaily assents. They turn towards the house, whence Krupitschka comes running, breathless with haste.
"What is the matter?" the major calls out.
"Nothing, nothing, Herr Baron," the man replies; "but the Frau Baroness desires you both to come to the drawing-room; she has a visitor."
"Is that any reason why you should run yourself so out of breath that you look like a fish on dry land?" the major bawls to his old servant. "You fairly frightened me, you ass! Who is the visitor?"
"Please--I do not know," declares Krupitschka, lying brazenly, while the major frowns, saying, "There's an end to our walk," and never noticing the sly smile upon the old man's face.
Zdena runs to her room to smooth her hair, tossed by the breeze, while the major, annoyed, goes directly to the drawing-room. He opens the door and stands as if rooted to the threshold. Beside the sofa where Frau Rosamunda is enthroned, with her official hostess expression, doing the honours with a grace all her own, sits a broad-shouldered old gentleman in a loose long-tailed coat, laughing loudly at something she has just told him.
"Franz!" exclaims Paul von Leskjewitsch.
"Here I am," responds the elder brother, with hardly-maintained composure. He rises; each advances towards the other, but before they can clasp hands the elder of the two declares, "I wish, Paul, you would tell your bailiff to see to the ploughing on your land. That field near the forest is in a wretched condition,--hill and valley, the clods piled up, and wheat sown there. I have always held that no military man can ever learn anything about agriculture. You never had the faintest idea of farming." And as he speaks he clasps the major's hand and pinches Harry's ear. The young fellow has been looking on with a smile at the meeting between the brothers.
"I understand you, uncle: I am not to leave the service. I could not upon any terms," the young man assures him,--"not even if I were begged to do so."
"He's a hard-headed fellow," Baron Franz says, with a laugh; "and so is the girl. Did she tell you that she met me in the forest? We had a conversation together, she and I. At first she took me for that fool Studnecka; then she guessed who I was, and read me such a lecture! I did not care: it showed me that she was a genuine Leskjewitsch. H'm! I ought to have come here then, but--I--could not find the way; I waited for some one to show it to me." He pats Harry on the shoulder. "But where the deuce is the girl? Is she hiding from me?"
At this moment Zdena enters. The old man turns ghastly pale; his hands begin to tremble violently, as he stretches them out towards her. She gazes at him for an instant, then runs to him and throws her arms around his neck. He clasps her close, as if never to let her leave him.
The others turn away. There is a sound of hoarse sobbing. All that the strong man has hoarded up in his heart for twenty years asserts itself at this moment.
It is not long, however, before all emotion is calmed, and affairs take their natural course. The two elderly men sit beside Frau Rosamunda, still enthroned on her sofa, and the lovers stand in the recess of a window and look out upon the spring.
"So we are not to be poor, after all?" Zdena says, with a sigh.
"It seems not," Harry responds, putting his arm round her.
She does not speak for a while; then she murmurs, softly, "'Tis a pity: I took such pleasure in it!"